


His Throat

by anomalously



Series: Mischief [7]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Date Night, Husbands, M/M, Sexual Content, Sexual Frustration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-15 03:25:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11797422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomalously/pseuds/anomalously
Summary: Ian's staring again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I literally just wrote this in twenty minutes, it's super short.  
> But I haven't updated or posted anything in such a long time, and so here's something to let you know I'm still alive.  
> So here, have an impulse post lmao

Thing was, he was staring again. Openly staring, and he didn’t fucking care that Mickey was staring right back at him, with a curious lift of his brow, a question in his eye. Full lips parted briefly before pressing tightly together again.

Ian subconsciously wet his lips, sight traveling down the line of Mickey’s throat, to the point of his v-neck shirt, back up to under his jaw. He knew the skin there well, knew the taste, the scent. Knew the soft texture of that flesh. He wet his lips again, mouth watering.

Years ago, when they were kids, he’d mark that skin up. Spend long, drawn out moments pressing lips and tongue to Mickey’s neck, his throat, sucking hard and biting at him, scraping teeth under his jaw. Hasn’t done that in so long. Marked up necks don’t really go with business attire. Ian marks Mickey’s body up, his chest, his back, his hips… but that neck. That throat. God, Mickey would get so fucking worked up... needy and begging, grabbing at Ian’s hair, holding him in place as they rocked against each other.

“Ian,” Mickey finally kicks him under the table, fork and knife in hand, he uses his knife to tap against Ian’s dinner plate. “ _Ian_.”

Under normal circumstances, Ian would jolt out of his hypnotic stare, but he only tears his eyes away for just a moment, grabbing a passing waitress, “Can we have the check, please –and boxes?”

She hums an affirmative, while Mickey is kicking him again under the table, “The fuck are you… I’m not even –you haven’t touched your fucking food yet. What...”

Mickey’s mouth is full of frustration and curses; Ian’s eyes are plastered back where they were before, watching Mickey’s adam’s apple move while he talks and swallows.

“Guess I’m talking to a fucking wall now, huh,” Mickey’s voice is hard. Then soft, “You okay?”

Ian looks up at Mickey’s eyes, seeing that concern, and he internally scolds himself. Shouldn’t worry Mickey like that, probably looks like he’s going through an episode or something. Ian tells him, “Yeah. We’re just going home.”

Mickey’s tattooed fingers gently release his silverware before they scrub over his face and into dark hair. He opens his mouth to say something, but the waitress is back, boxing their shit up and putting the leather-bound bill fold down on the table for one of them to pick up. So Mickey sits and waits, thanking her while he watches his half-eaten dinner being taken off of his plate and neatly placed into a container. Ian would feel guilty about it, if he weren’t so fucking hard. If he weren’t so focused on his husband’s neck, his throat, what he wants to do with said parts.

Ian picks up the bill, shoving a credit card inside without looking at the total (who can care about that shit at a time like this), handing it to the waitress before she leaves again.

Mickey sighs, brows darn in the trademark Milkovich frown, “Ian, what–”

“Want you,” it’s out of Ian’s mouth quiet. “M’so fucking hard right now.” Says it so quiet; the opposite of how he’ll take his husband when they get home.

Mickey blinks at him, before his brow turns soft, and the corner of his mouth tugs up, tongue poking out between his lips. His _K_ knuckle brushes against his nose as blue eyes scan the restaurant, “That right?”

Ian nods, “Gonna have some questions about your neck tomorrow at the office.”

“Fuck,” Mickey’s eyes close briefly, like he’s trying to steady himself. He whispers the word. Ian wants it said _loud_ , said rough, wants to feel the center of that word vibrate against his mouth, wants to feel Mickey’s pulse, and every breath he gasps.

The waitress returns, telling them they were all set. Ian signs the dotted line, grinning when he looks up from the bill and sees Mickey already walking towards the exit, leftovers in hand.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since you asked so nicely, and even offered up first borns for this lmao ;)  
> (also I decided that this fits in with the Mischief series, so...)

The car ride home was tense; Ian’s hands wrapping tightly around the wheel, Mickey’s hand heavily resting on his thigh. No words. Nothing. They just let it build, Mickey’s fingers pressing into Ian’s leg every so often, gently scratching at the material of his pants. 

Bless date night; bless no teenagers milling around at home; bless multi-parent, multi-household families. They barely got through the garage door, into the kitchen, before Ian was pulling on his belt, before Mickey was pulling his shirt over his head and grabbing for Ian. Hard kiss, heavy breath. Mickey moaned into Ian’s mouth, and Ian gladly swallowed it down.

Leftovers were forgotten in the car. Wouldn’t be remembered until morning; Mickey would bitch about it stinking up the car while Ian kissed him into distraction.

There’s a stack of plastic plates by the sink that get shoved off of the counter, into said sink. They clatter against the stainless steel and Mickey grins against Ian’s lips as he’s pushed up into the spot the plates previously occupied. Ian grins back, hands searching over Mickey’s skin, his chest and stomach, up his back to his shoulders. He tastes Mickey’s mouth, tongues sliding as they steal breath from one another. 

“Fuck,” Mickey pants. Ian trails his mouth down his jaw, getting to that neck. That fucking neck, that fucking throat.

Fingers are in Ian’s hair; Ian’s pressed between Mickey’s spread legs, pushing against him while his head is held in place. Ian kisses; Ian sucks; Ian bites down on soft flesh. Mickey holds onto him, trapping him with strong thighs, arching into him. He’s breathing so hard, Ian feels the soft rush of air inside his throat. His husband is so fucking sensitive here, keens with fervor as Ian grabs his ass hard while he sucks and tastes him.

Ian moves to the other side of Mickey’s neck. His face buried, pressed, into the soft flesh. It’s almost hard to breathe like this, but he doesn’t fucking care. Let him suffocate against the column of Mickey’s throat, let him die feeling his husband’s pulse  against his lips. Ian can’t stop tasting him, can’t stop inhaling the smell of him. That Mickey smell. Home. Everything. 

Ian’s hands slide to the front of Mickey’s pants; he pulls at his belt, his button, his zipper until he can reach inside, make Mickey even louder, feel that hardness up close and personal, feel the slick gathered on the tip. Ian licks a long, broad stripe up Mickey’s throat as he strokes him. Mickey shakes; Mickey bucks.

“Remember when I used to cover you in marks?” Ian’s voice is strung the fuck out, raspy and thick. He kisses under Mickey’s ear, taking him in his hand tightly, stroking him. “Fucked you so deep while I sucked on your neck.”

His husband whimpers, hips rocking into Ian’s hold, “Yeah,” Mickey breathes.

“Looked like someone fucking strangled you,” Ian grins, mouth opening against Mickey’s neck. “Marked up for days after I was done with you.”

Mickey holds him in pace, fingers tight in his hair, breath rough on each exhale. Ian strokes him tightly, his hand wedged between them, his other holding Mickey by the small of his back, pulling him closer. There’s no more room, but Mickey wiggles against him, bucking on the counter and wrapping his legs around Ian’s waist.

“Bed,” Mickey slurs. “C’mon… bed, c’mon…”

Ian’s smile is wicked as he unwraps his hand from Mickey’s cock, tugging him down from the counter. Their mouths attract like magnets again, and somehow –Ian’s really not sure how– they make it upstairs, clothes trailing behind them, littering the floor in their wake.

Out of habit, Ian closes and locks the door behind them before he pushes Mickey to the bed, climbs on top, is met with grabbing hands and naked flesh, is met with a swollen mouth asking for more. Ian kisses Mickey hard, harder, then soft, kisses him deep and searching, hands sliding over soft flesh, mapping out trails he had surveyed for years. He knows this body, and it never bores him. Is never routine. They were always good at this, always good at handling each other’s form. 

Ian drops back down to the column of Mickey’s throat, making his husband whine, making him shudder and press his hips up against him. His hardness, the slick that tells him how badly he needs Ian. Ian groans against Mickey’s throat. He pushes back while he sucks another mark. 

Before Mickey can tell him anything, Ian already knows. He backs off, barely giving enough time for Mickey to flip under him, displaying his back, his ass, everything. They’re fire, absolute fucking fire; Ian’s on his husband once more, molding to his back, biting at the back of his shoulders, his neck, down down down.

Mickey is rough with his words, when Ian manhandles him onto his knees, crudely spreading him open, diving in. Long licks and heavy breath, Ian grabs harshly at Mickey’s ass as he feasts. Too quickly, and surprisingly since they hadn’t done it in so long, Mickey grabs at Ian, forcing him to lay on the bed. Ian grins, watching his husband climb on top of him, reverse, and Ian gladly takes him upon his offer, grabbing hips, moaning against Mickey’s spit-slicked hole when he feels hot breath ghost over the head of his own cock.

Mickey used to give Ian a hard time about how they shouldn’t get married, because (among other hangups the brunette had) married people have “quiet, repressed missionary style” sex for the rest of their lives. Ian had made it a point to prove him fucking wrong. Like Mickey Milkovich would ever allow himself to have quiet, repressed sex again anyways. Fucking slut. Ian loved him.

Ian grabs handfuls of Mickey’s ass. His cock is being engulfed in hot and wet and tight. Mickey moans around his cock; he takes him deep; Ian fucks him with his tongue, he trails over Mickey’s perineum and balls, he moves to take Mickey into his mouth as well. Fucking fire. Fucking married  _ fire _ .

By the time Mickey is prepped and ready –after he had climbed off of Ian, blue eyes blazing and body completely flushed, after Ian had held his husband down and worked slicked up fingers into him until Mickey begged and whined for his cock– Ian is shaking for it.

Ian looked down at his husband, throat splattered with red marks, as he pushes into him, bottoms out –makes Mickey’s eyes roll and tilt his head back, presenting that flesh to Ian again. It’s a hard offer to refuse. And Mickey feels so fucking good, feels so good that he makes everything slow the fuck down, makes the world go quiet.

“Feels so fucking good,” Mickey moans. “Your cock feels so good, holy fuck…”

Ian dips his head, taking that throat again, first kissing softly at the skin, pushing deep into his husband. His stomach flips, predictably, from Mickey’s continued praising words. Ian asks his husband with a breathy smile, “Like that, baby?”

Mickey hums long and low, arms wrapping around Ian, fingers digging into his hair, scratching at his scalp, “Know I fucking do.”

Ian fucks him slow and deep, at first. Pulling out, driving back in with purpose. He feels it every fucking where. Shudders every time Mickey keens, every time Mickey tightens around him, fists his hair in his fingers. Ian sucks softly at Mickey’s neck, his throat. Mickey tells him how good it feels, wants to feel more. He says all these things that he’s wanting, and Ian wants to give him everything.  _ Will _ give him everything. 

“Yeah,” Mickey chants with every thrust, every slap of skin; Ian’s fucking him harder now.

Ian pushes his forehead against Mickey’s, holding his arms down against the mattress so Mickey can’t touch himself. Green bores into blue, and Mickey half-heartedly struggles against his hold while his legs pull up more, spreading more, giving Ian more room.

“Right there,” Mickey’s chants switch to. Over and over. “Right there –fuck– right there.”

Ian kisses Mickey, feeling the need to come crash like a wave inside of him. From his toes all the way to the top of his head, he shudders against Mickey, he moans loud into their kiss. “Come for me,” he tells Mickey, pulling away from the kiss, watching his husband’s face.

Mickey nods, looking right up at him. Blue eyes wide; his mouth is puffy and reddened, lips parted, he just nods. Fuck, he’s perfect. Ian keeps looking at his throat, the marks. He licks his lips, pushes harder, tells him again to come.

God, and he does. Mickey comes with his back arching and legs tightening around Ian, he comes and the noise spilling from his mouth is straight from the bottom of his belly. All rough and primal, he comes and it sends the sweetest fucking shiver up Ian’s spine, watching him fall apart, feeling that wet heat between them. 

Ian’s not the one telling anyone to come anymore, Mickey is. Exhausted, but still very much present, Mickey is pulling on Ian, kissing him sloppy, “Want it,” is all he says. A tired, filthy smirk, and Ian’s fucking done-for.

He fills his husband while his mouth is dropped to the crook of his neck, sucking hard at the flesh there. Holds deep inside and empties everything he’s fucking got while he gives Mickey one last mark. And Mickey holds on tight to him, doesn't let him go, don't let him go anywhere, just holds him there, holds him inside. Mickey kisses the side of his head, scratches at his scalp. Ian shoves his hands under his husband, holding him right back. Still very much buried, wrapped up in Mickey’s warmth. Ian wants to stay there forever. 

They eventually untangle. Climb into the shower, wash each other down. Ian bites his bottom lip to keep from laughing at the amount of marks he left on Mickey’s neck. Mickey calls him a  _ fucking vampire _ multiple times, moans on and on about how much shit he’s going to get from his co-workers for all of the marks. 

It’s not until they get out of the shower, and Ian looks into the bathroom mirror –he sees he’s got a few of his own marks. Fair play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M COLLECTING THOSE BABIES!


End file.
